


The Art of Losing

by Fluencca



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Comic Book Science, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Grief/Mourning, If You Squint - Freeform, Irondad, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluencca/pseuds/Fluencca
Summary: Peter's gotten really good at losing people.Or,5 times Peter dealt with Tony's death on his own, and one time he dealt with it with Tony.
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 84
Kudos: 141





	1. I-V

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JinxQuickfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxQuickfoot/gifts).



> I humbly offer this as a belated (and sorry--somewhat sad) birthday gift to the wonderful, kind, creative and all around good people, [Jinxquickfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinxquickfoot/pseuds/jinxquickfoot). 
> 
> You literally make the fandom a nicer place.

**I.**

Peter wasn’t invited inside to hear Tony’s parting words.

Happy squeezed his shoulder, gave May a deliberate glance, and excused himself. Captain America, Thor, and Rhodey followed him indoors.

Peter listened to the broadcast outside with the others, with the strangers, with those who had barely known Mr. Stark, and even though his eyes burned he couldn’t cry.

So… that was a question answered. He tried to focus on the funeral as the others came outside, as Pepper walked down to the waterfront, as she set the wreath gently down; but thoughts of Mr. Stark were suddenly elusive. _I’m a tier two acquaintance. I thought—it felt—but—_ apparently not. He stood outside with all the strangers and tried to cry.

After the ceremony May handed Peter a plate of food, but then she wandered nearer to Happy and joined the conversation he was having, and Peter made himself scarce. It felt weird to accept condolence when he’d been ceremoniously excluded from Tony’s inner-circle.

He sat against a tree a-ways off, picking at his food and letting the conversations from around the property drift in and out of his hearing. Scott explained to Hank Pym, _the_ Hank Pym, about getting stuck in the Quantum Realm for five year-long hours, and Steve Rogers apologized for crank calling him 50 years ago so he could steal his particles. Morgan was refusing to taste every single piece of food Pepper suggested. Happy was telling May and Falcon about the most recent presidential elections. Doctor Strange hadn’t even stayed for the food.

So many people he didn’t know. None of the knew him. They were at most a friend of a—a what?

Peter knew that he and Mr. Stark had been… something. He thought— _had_ thought—that seeing Mr. Stark on the battlefield had laid those concerns to rest. He could still feel Tony’s arms around him when he closed his eyes, could still feel the first truly crushing hug he’d had in the two years since he got his powers. Had that just been Tony’s own near brush with death making him emotional? Maybe he’d have hugged anyone who’d been Gone.

Peter made himself laugh when he imagined Tony pulling Other Peter into an embrace. He couldn’t imagine a less appropriate PDA. He set his plate down in the dirt next to him.

It didn’t really matter, he supposed, how close he and Mr. Stark had really been. Even though it seemed that Rhodey understood, that he’d known—No. It didn’t matter. And if he wanted to be totally, brutally honest, maybe it wasn’t only Mr. Stark. Maybe Peter himself had loved the _idea_ of being close to Iron Man more than he’d loved the man himself. He couldn’t even cry at his funeral.

He sat back against the tree and pushed down on a hollowness that spread upward from his middle. It was like his special sense, warning him that something was wrong with the world, except this one predated his powers. He remembered feeling this way after the plane crash, and after the robbery. Like everything was wrong, him just _being_ was wrong if other things, other people, weren’t in place. And it was. Wrong. Peter couldn’t help but think (guiltily, errantly, horribly) that things had been better the other way around. He hadn’t known he’d been dead, after all, but the world had undoubtedly been better off with Mr. Stark in it.

The people who had been mingling indoors moved out, others moved inside. Peter could only see shadows of black moving between the trees, faces indistinguishable through the thick foliage; but their voices were as crisp as the mountain air, floating all around him, impossible to shove away or shut out.

Captain America’s friend with the metal arm was sorry he’d never gotten to apologize to Stark about _it_ , whatever _it_ was. Pepper was sobbing in poorly-controlled gasps in one of the upstairs rooms. The blue lady from Titan was explaining the rules of table football to Rhodey, who was nodding and _hmm_ ing with somber interest. Someone was dragging a body through the trees.

Morgan came into view, back first, pulling a stuffed sleeping bag away from the open area where guests were milling. She let go of it with a small grunt, letting it drop between the trees ahead of Peter, apparently deeming the area a safe distance from the adults.

She unzipped the sleeping bag so it opened sloppily into a blanket, and sat down between the toys and bedding stuffed inside.

Peter cleared his throat. “Um, hi.”

Morgan turned around on all six, tense and wide-eyed.

Peter tensed, too. “I mean, hi, I’m Peter?”

“You _scared_ me,” she accused, and sat back down, with her back to Peter. So not _too_ scared, apparently.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. He wished he could see her face, see if she resembled _him_. The fact that Mr. Stark had a kid was wild. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted a little privacy. There’s too many people there.”

She whipped around on all six again, and fixed him with a glare. “I even said that to my mommy, but she doesn’t let me be in my tent. So I took _all_ the things from the tent over here,” she said and sat facing Peter, shrugging petulantly at him. The challenge hung between them for a moment while Peter decided how to respond. 

“What things did you bring?” He finally asked, and Morgan smiled excitedly as she gathered an impossible amount of figures, toys, and what looked like a handful of twigs into her lap.

She held up a forked branch with small, bulbous fruit. “I found these next to the lake and they look like little coconuts so I made daddy coconut juice, but only pretend. This is my book about the planets, but it’s _really_ old because Pluto is still in it, and that was about infinity years ago. Infinity is the biggest number,” she added knowledgeably, before naming each of the little plastic dolls in her lap.

Peter wouldn’t have known what to say even if she’d paused long enough to give him the chance. Maybe that calling 2006 _infinity_ years ago was a bit much. Instead, he just smiled as she spoke, making occasional noncommittal _ah_ s whenever she pierced him with a look that indicated she was waiting for some kind of response. There was so much of Mr. Stark in the way she cut her words and took effortless control of the interaction, even though she couldn’t be older than five.

_Five._ She was so big. Mr. Stark had had a daughter and she wasn’t a baby, she was a real person who had thoughts and ideas and piercing looks. Peter tried the combination a few different ways— _Tony’s kid_ and _Tony was her dad_ and _the daughter of Tony Stark_ —but they all felt equally unreal to him. Peter wished so badly to have known her and Mr. Stark together, to see him holding her and talking to her or singing to her, or whatever it was dads did. She was this huge part of Tony’s life, probably the biggest part, and Peter knew nothing about it. It made him feel like he hadn’t really known Mr. Stark at the end, either.

Peter tuned back in just as Morgan finished naming plush Avengers. “And I met all of them in _real life._ Except for Spider-Man,” she added. Peter leaned a little forward and crossed his legs Indian-style.

“Daddy said he was away, in Space.” Morgan looked up at the sky. “Did you know that Jupiter is very stormy?”

“Uh, yeah, I did know that,” Peter said quickly, anxious to get back to the other thing. To proof he may have existed, even a little, during those five years. During this little girl’s lifetime. “You have a Spider-Man toy?”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “It’s not a _toy,_ it’s a _doll,_ ” she corrected primly. “And I’m not supposed to show it to grownups, because it’s a _special_ doll that only protects _kids._ ” She enunciated as though Peter were silly for not knowing this stuff already. She looked him up-and down, then asked, “Are you a grownup or a big kid?”

“Oh, I’m definitely a big kid,” Peter answered eagerly. “I can’t even drive, yet,” he offered by way of evidence.

This seemed to satisfy her. She shuffled the bedding that took up the bulk of the sleeping bag’s area, and turned back to Peter holding a shiny plush Spider-Man doll. The colors were deep maroon and navy, outlined in gold, and it took Peter a second to realize that it wasn’t dirty or discolored, it was _the suit_. The suit he’d worn exactly once for five years. The Iron Spider suit.

Peter extended his hand. “Can I…?”

Morgan leaned forward and handed him the doll. It was softer than Peter had expected. Despite the metallic shine, the cloth it was made of was silky to the touch. He turned the thing over and over in his hands, but there was no tag, no seam where one had been sewn-in and cut-off. It made sense. No one on Earth had ever seen him wear that suit, no one but Tony.

The hollowness Peter felt before began to fill, with something warm and thick. He blinked rapidly and it fell back, merely an incessant pressure remaining in its wake, and handed the doll back to Morgan. “Your dad got you this?”

Morgan nodded. “Spider-Man is good at protecting little people, so he helps me fall asleep when there’s loud wind. I don’t like the wind.”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah. Me neither,” he whispered.

Mr. Stark had taught his daughter that Spider-Man would protect her? He’d had a doll made with the suit he’d been wearing when—with his new suit? It was so much to take in. Too much.

And Peter could hear Happy and Pepper calling for Morgan on the other side of the house. He stood up, and shook leaves off his trousers and jacket. “I think Happy’s looking for you. Should we close the sleeping bag and go back?”

Morgan groaned like Peter was putting her out terribly, but she stood and zipped up the sleeping bag with all the toys inside, but held on to her doll. Peter lifted the sleeping bag, careful to hold it right-side-up. He jerked slightly when Morgan held on to his free hand.

“Do you know my dad?”

“Yeah, I do.” _Did._

“Do you know Spider-Man?”

“Yeah, I know him too,” Peter laughed back the heaviness behind his cheeks. Finally, something he could impress her with.

“Do you know how to _play_ Spider-Man?” Peter felt her squeeze his hand, and he looked down when he felt her pause beside him. Her eyes were wide, brimming with hope and anticipation.

“Uh, no, I’m sorry. But I can guess? Do you… Pretend to shoot webs?” He tried to make it sound as appealing a game as he could, but her face fell all the same.

“No, it’s not that,” she deflated, and resumed walking. “Also mommy and Happy and _anyone_ knows. Only daddy. I’ll ask him when he gets home from being dead.”

She spoke simply, casually, unaware that beside her, Peter had given up on his combative blinking and, for a second or two, just let the tears form.

**II.**

Happy came over a lot over the next few weeks, which was very nice of him. Once Peter and May had moved into their new apartment, he’d helped them with shopping for appliances, reregistering for life, and generally with settling into their new now.

His phone and computer were long-gone, obsolete even if they had survived. Happy hooked him up with something sleek and futuristic looking that essentially did all the same things as his last phone. Same with the computers and television.

It was a surprise, then, when Happy came up on afternoon holding a bag of takeout and a box filled with… stuff.

“Take this, kid. This is heavy for those of us who can’t lift cars. Grab it, grab it, no, not the food, the box, man.”

Peter was finally able to withdraw it from Happy’s embrace without knocking anything out of his hands, but his forehead creased when he looked inside. He didn’t recognize anything in the box. He looked up at Happy, who answered the unspoken question.

“Pepper’s been going through Tony’s stuff. Nothing valuable, per se, but she found some things she thought you’d like to have.” Happy walked around the little island, and took care to catch Peter’s eye as he put a hand on his shoulder. “She doesn’t know _you_ very well, but she knew Tony the best. He’d want you to have this stuff.”

“Why don’t you take a look at that, then join us for dinner,” May suggested from the kitchen, where she was placing plates and cutlery on the countertop. “We’ll wait for you.”

Happy looked back, alarmed. “We will?”

May only laughed, and Peter turned toward his room, heart pounding.

He deliberately kept his eyes front and forward. A box of Mr. Stark’s things? It could be anything, but that meant the potential for disappointment was enormous. What if Pepper thought he was interested in internship papers, or web-formula that Mr. Stark had lying around? This was probably the last thing he’d ever receive from Tony—it was a miracle to be receiving this—but Peter thought he would cry if the box contained meaningless crap from Mr. Stark’s desk.

He sat on his bed, and didn’t look inside.

Peter tried to prepare himself, to steel himself, for whatever was in there. Maybe if he really believed it was nothing special, he wouldn’t be disappointed when it turned out to be just that. It wasn’t like he was waiting for something, or even had the faintest idea of what to expect. This was really super low stakes and he didn’t—this was stupid—

He looked inside the box.

The first thing he pulled out was a soft, almost-new MIT zip-up hoodie. Peter leaned in to inhale it deeply, his mind already producing the smells it was expecting—aftershave and coffee and too-cold AC and a hint of mint—but instead he had to swallow down a gag as he tossed the hoodie away from him. Fabric-softener was sickeningly sweet even from a distance, and he’d just stuck his whole face in the lavender-vanilla assault that Pepper apparently favored. Peter opened a window and sat back down on the bed. He supposed it made sense to gift the hoodie to him. It wasn’t like it would fit Morgan for another fifteen years or so, and it didn’t even smell like Tony. But it was nice, and he’d wear it as soon as the smell faded a bit.

The next thing he pulled out of the box _was_ a notebook with some suit-sketches and variant web formulations, and Peter glanced at them briefly before setting them aside. There were a few music albums on CD, a copy of _Atlas Shrugged,_ a patch of web that had lost its stickiness, and piles of old takeout menus, places Peter and Tony used to order from when Peter stayed at the Compound. Leafing through them, Peter saw at least three that had closed during the Blip Years.

All in all, it looked like a bunch of Peter-related things that Mr. Stark had saved, but didn’t really know what to do with. He probably didn’t want to throw them out after the Blip, but there wasn’t any use for this stuff, not really.

Peter set the menus on his bed, and scooped out handfuls of photos that had been lining the bottom of the box. There was a sticky note on one of them, probably in Pepper’s hand, because it wasn’t Mr. Stark’s or Happy’s.

_Tony kept all this stuff in the garage where he worked. Thought you might want it._

Peter lay on his stomach, and flipped through the pictures. Only two or three were actually pictures of him and Tony. The rest were… not. It was weird—Peter remembered some of these shots, and he knew that Mr. Stark hadn’t been there when they were taken. He must have downloaded these images from Peter’s cloud, Karen’s recordings, or something. Some were shots of Spider-Man, and some were just Peter. There were dozens of photos. If it were anyone else Peter would have been creeped out, he thought as he examined them.

It was nearly half-an hour later when May knocked lightly on the door, then pushed it open a fraction and asked if she could come in.

Peter was happy for her to join him. He flipped slowly through the pictures for the _something_ th time, taking each one in in minute detail, even though they were achingly familiar by now.

Peter smiling goofily into the mirror. A selfie he’d taken during junior prom. Spider-Man hanging upside down, both arms extended in gesticulated illustration of some forgotten point. A view of just his legs dangling high above the City, lights twinkling below and around him, like he was in space, but safe, relaxed, at ease. The next one was going to be his school picture, a little dorky but happ—

“Earth to Peter? Can I come in?”

Peter started and knocked the empty box clear off the bed with his elbow, but reached over to catch it before it hit the floor. “Oh, sorry, May,” he laughed embarrassedly. “I was just looking through these photos Pepper sent.”

He picked up the nearest pile and flipped through them for May to see as she came to stand alongside the bed.

“All of them are of you?”

“Yeah,” Peter answered. He’d just pulled off his mask in that one, and his hair looked like it had a baby duck nesting in it.

“Isn’t that a little… Weird? What are you supposed to do with those?”

Peter looked up at May. She was frowning slightly, like she really didn’t get it. He pulled her down until she was sitting on the bed next to him and leaned close, their knees touching, and began flipping through the stack again.

“It’s not weird. Well,” Peter corrected, “not weirder than anything else in our life. I dunno, I think it’s… nice.”

He toyed with explaining it to her, that they were all picture _of_ him, but also Tony was in those pictures. He chose each and every one of them; these, each of these, were how Mr. Stark had seen Peter. But it was sad and lame and a little too self-centered to say all that out loud, so Peter didn’t. He just let her look at the photos, hoping she’d understand what he saw in them, but too embarrassed to explain.

A photo of Peter walking into the Compound lobby, his backpack slung over a shoulder. One of Peter chewing and laughing at the same time, the result the craziest expression Peter had ever seen on any face.

Peter tried not to dwell on Mr. Stark very often. It felt like it wasn’t his place, not when it seemed that everyone else had a better claim to his memory. But these photos, well, they sort of made it seem like Mr. Stark had made a claim to _Peter’s_ memory, and that made Peter feel selfish and warm and known.

He reached a photo that Mr. Stark must have pulled from his phone, from a decathlon practice. Peter’s hand hovered over the button, his face intense and alert, and the hint of a determined smile toyed at one corner of his mouth. Apparently, he’d known the answer.

“This is such a _regular_ picture, May, but… He decided to print it.”

He continued flipping. Goofy. Dashing. Cheeky. Dorky. Happy, confident, silly, determined, proud. He hadn’t gotten to know Mr. Stark as well as he’d have liked, but maybe he could believe that Mr. Stark had known him.

“How did you get so good at getting unsad?” May asked with a sad smile, pushing closer against Peter’s side, resting her head on his.

“I’ve just got a cheery disposition,” he said with a humble shrug and half a smile, and May laughed.

_Practice_.

May dropped a light kiss on his head.

Peter flipped through the pictures again.

**III.**

Being back at school was _weird._ Everything looked exactly the same but felt entirely different, and the dissonance was hard to navigate. It was only an afternoon of early registration and orientation, but Peter could tell that the Blip Kids who were there to enroll for next year all felt the same.

The banners were as cheerful as ever, but the classrooms were half empty. All the lower lockers were rusted shut, and the cafeteria, which normally wasn’t big enough for the whole school, felt like an underpopulated tomb.

But when the bell rang the kids rushed out of the class in a familiar bustle, and the way they were groaning about their homework and gossiping about the teachers made Peter feel like he could effortlessly join their conversation.

He rechecked his schedule, then looked over Ned’s shoulder to check his. Peter had just finished individual meetings with the guidance counselor (“I was Blipped, too, so I know _exactly_ what you’re going through,” she’d assured Peter, but he didn’t remember her getting smacked around on Titan so he wasn’t sure he entirely believed her), and now they were headed out to the pitch, for an assembly for the incoming junior and senior classes.

They’d be intending to cut through the gym, but it was jam-packed with kids, shouting, laughing, and throwing things to one another as they shuffled to find seats. One look at the pandemonium had Peter and Ned turning on their heels. They’d take the longer way around.

“Oh, my _God,”_ MJ said, pushing her way between them. “The underclassmen are so loud.”

“Not to mention _young,_ ” Ned said, shuffling aside to make room for her as she settled into their pace. “My nine-year-old neighbor is a freshman, now. That’s just… all kinds of wrong.”

“What’s wrong is that we’re gonna be juniors again,” Betty chimed in, falling in beside Peter as they pushed out the front doors and made their way around back. “It’s total… _bull,_ ” she added in a scandalized whisper, and looked around to make sure no adults had heard her. “I wonder if they’ll explain why in the assembly.”

“Is it really such a mystery?” MJ asked with a raised brow and an even tone. “The school gets State and Federal grants for every student that reenrolls post-Blip, all through graduation. They have a financial interest to keep us here as long as possible.”

“So we’ll just be on summer vacation until August? That’s months and months!”

“I dunno Betty, perpetual summer vacation kinda sounds like the cat’s pajamas,” Ned offered.

By the time they’d circled the gym and stood by its backdoor, there was a whole group of Blip-kids walking together and discussing how unfair it was for them to be held back a year, and wondering what other setbacks they could expect.

Peter hung back, letting them overtake him while he leaned against the side of the gym. Suddenly all this noise, the arguing, the giddiness, it was so much _._ He pulled out his phone and began scrolling through it. He’d let them find a place and join them when the principal started speaking.

He was halfway through his new messages when the door next to him burst open and Flash all but _flew_ out of the gym, the riotous noise from within making the sounds from the pitch sound tame.

“Jesus Christ,” Flash said, and slammed the door shut as though it was making the noise itself. “The underclassmen are so obnoxious. I’m not sure why there are so many of them.” He shook off some imaginary dirt from his _Nibea_ shirt—a new post-Blip brand with a stupid-looking collar that was all the rage—and looked up to see who he was talking to.

“Oh, it’s you. Well, I guess that settles it, huh? Funny to think that we thought that stuff matters, you know?” He was somber for a moment. “Well, anyway, cutting through the gym was a mistake. Should have gone around. See you, Dweebtard.”

Peter barely had time to shake his head in confusion. “What settles what matters?”

Flash turned back, and even if his words weren’t making sense at least he was wearing his patented look of Peter-disgust. “What is wrong with you? I just apologized. Let it go, Parker. There are bigger things happening in the world.”

So the Blip hadn’t changed Flash, and Peter supposed that was something of a comfort, although he was curious now. He closed his eyes and listened, but he couldn’t hear any teachers anywhere in the vicinity of the pitch, so he assumed he had at least a few minutes to investigate what Flash had meant. Bracing himself against the noise, he opened the door to the gym.

To be met with 600 pairs of eyes on him, and utter, complete, bated silence.

He stared back.

Finally, _finally_ , a teacher stepped in. “Entry is only from the _front,_ ” she hissed, and pointed to the main doors to the gym. “You’re here to be a Parker Kid?”

Peter was lost again. “No—I mean, what? I mean, I _am_ a Parker kid, I think—”

The teacher seemed to also be wearing Flash’s patented look of Peter-disgust. Peter sighed. He didn’t usually get it from total strangers, and he didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

She nodded over to an empty spot in the back, and Peter went, hunched. He needn’t have bothered; no one took any notice of him. All the eyes were still on the front, where a small podium stood in front of a large screen. The lights dimmed just as a speaker stepped onto the stage.

“Thank you to Midtown High for hosting this year’s Parker Program,” she said, and Peter shut his eyes because he immediately understood where this was going and what Flash had meant and his heart was pounding and he couldn’t handle it if he was wrong. He shut his eyes and he told himself he was trying to shut her out, too.

“My name is Claire, and I’m the CTO at Stark Industries. I know that lots of you—those of you who survived the Blip five years ago—have been expecting to sit in this auditorium, or one like it, and hear Tony Stark give you the spiel like he’s done every year since the Blip. Look around now,” she said, and paused, and Peter could hear the rustle of kids shifting in their seats, “at the kids next to you who _didn’t_ survive the Blip. Mr. Stark isn’t here so they could be. Unfortunately for you, that means you get to listen to me for thirty minutes.”

She paused, and the assembled underclassmen laughed on cue. Some of the teachers, too.

“So what is the Parker Program?”

Several hands shot up, but she ignored them.

“Five years ago, the Blip took half of the people on our world. Among those was a talented young intern who used to work for Mr. Stark—you guessed it, a Mr. Parker.”

If he let the pressure build there any longer, he’d sob. Peter opened his eyes and focused on the speaker, on the abstract shapes floating on the screen behind her, on the way the microphone hummed a fraction of a second before she resumed speaking. He wouldn’t cry.

“Mr. Stark knew that now more than ever, kids not only needed a goal, they needed a _chance._ And that’s what the Parker Program aims to do. Twenty kids from high-schools across the five boroughs will be given a chance to intern at Stark Industries throughout their high-school years. Our first wave of Parker Kids actually just started their freshman year at STEM colleges across the country! And that leads us to the second thing the Program aims to do—”

Peter zoned her out for a bit, hearing but not really processing all the details about scholarships and recommendations and projects and retreats.

It was _real._ His internship with Mr. Stark had been made into something official, solid, visible. _Real._ Real enough that even Flash finally believed him. This was proof, that Mr. Stark had created for the world, proof that Peter had known him.

Peter turned to leave, but stopped as the woman’s lecture shifted in tone. “But really, it’s best you hear it from the man himself,” she said, and took a small step back, gesturing at the screen behind her.

Peter felt both bolstered and weak, just at seeing him, standing on another stage in another high-school.

“Why bother? I mean, what’s the point, right?” He asked, pacing the length of the stage, shrugging. “Everyone here’s lost someone, right, at least one?” The crowd in the video murmured in agreement.

“And when you think about it, it would be so easy to continue being gray. Cause the air is cleaner and the sky is brighter, but everything’s been gray, yes?” He gestured to the crowd as though inviting them to check his logic, and their assent was far more emphatic.

He stopped pacing.

“But here’s the thing.” He looked straight out at the audience as he ran a hand across his chin, his jaw, and back down. The camera must have been dead center, because Peter felt that he was looking right at him.

“Those people we lost—there’s no sense in it. Trust me, I’ve looked, and I’m the smartest person in the world.” He paused until the laughter died down. “Their deaths didn’t matter. They were pointless _._ But if we remember them and excel because of them, _for them,_ then we can make sure their _lives_ mattered. Because they did. Every single one.” He shook his head slightly, but his eyes never left the camera. He looked sad, so profoundly sad, for a long moment. Then he swallowed and clapped.

“So let’s talk about how I can help you excel,” he said, a crooked smile erasing all worry from his face. Almost.

Peter ducked out of the auditorium. He couldn’t bear to see more of that awful, barely contained grief, not when he was _here_ now and Mr. Stark was not. It was all so unfair, too much so to really fully grasp.

Seeing Mr. Stark like that… Peter pushed through the front doors, and blinked at the bright afternoon. Seeing him like that, well, Peter believed him about the grayness of the world, because he looked gray, too. Healthy, and well, and a bit older than Peter thought of him, but gray from the inside-out. He remembered thinking that the world had been better off before, the other way around, but that was the world that had turned Mr. Stark into a living ghost of himself. It was horrible.

Peter forced himself to think about repeating his junior year, because the conclusion he was coming to was too awful to allow to fully form. _This,_ this world where Mr. Stark is gone and Peter is here, missing him, can’t possibly be the better option.

He took a seat next to MJ just as Principal Morita cleared his throat meaningfully down on the grass.

Peter refused to believe that this reality was the best of all possible worlds.

“Where were you?” MJ whispered, without bothering to look at him.

“Uh, fine,” Peter answered absently.

“What?”

If he admitted just how awful that other world seemed, it would feel like he was tacitly condoning what Mr. Stark had done on that battlefield, and he could never do that. He buried that presentation somewhere deep inside. The warm feeling that bubbled up inside him when he learned about the Parker Program ( _God, it was about him, it was for him and because of him_ ) wasn’t worth it.

“Shhh.” He pointed towards the principal. “We’re starting.”

**IV.**

Apparently, perpetual summer vacation wasn’t the cat’s pajamas. It turned out that there was a burn-out period on lounging, catching up on television, playing video games and building Lego sets. By the time June rolled around they were out of their minds with boredom, and by month’s end they couldn’t even muster up the energy to meet up. 

Peter didn’t really have the energy for tonight, either. Happy had met him in a café so he could pressure Peter into it in person. He’d patted down his jacket on either side, then pulled out a fancy looking envelope and handed it to Peter.

“I was asked to give you… This.”

Peter turned the envelop over in his hands. It was unsealed, and Peter pulled out the card inside.

“Happy, no _way._ ”

“He specifically asked me to invite you.”

“Can I—”

“No.”

“Just—”

“No friends. This is a very, you know, _intimate_ affair. Kid, it’s Cap’s birthday and he invited you. You don’t say no that. The guy is turning a hundred and five, you can take an evening to make an old man happy.”

Peter frowned. He knew it was an honor to be invited. Hell, it’d have been an honor to sneak in, let alone to be requested by name. But Happy had told him who would be there, and it was basically a lot of other adult Avengers Peter had never spoken to at all. A grownup birthday party with a bunch of people he didn’t know…

“Pete,” Happy said, and Peter startled at the nickname, “it’s more than a birthday party. Cap… He wants it to be also a sort of memorial for Tony. He doesn’t know if he’ll be around for the next one, and thinks Tony deserves to be remembered by his friends, by people who actually knew him. And that’s you. Okay?”

Peter slumped. That was unfair. He really couldn’t say no to _that_.

He nodded.

“And don’t worry, Scott Lang and Barton will be bringing the older kids, okay? They’re about your age. You can… I don’t know, play together.”

At the time Peter had rolled his eyes, but he’d been secretly hoping that he would hit it off with the Barton kids. Now, three hours into the party, Lila and Cooper were huddled together in some inner room of the Avengers’ suites in the Baxter Building, while Peter was sitting, alone, listening to the adults talk.

It wasn’t half-bad.

There were only eight grownups and five kids, and every single person there had known Mr. Stark except for Cassie Lang. They all sang happy birthday, had cake, and then settled in to various easy chairs and sofas and told the most _outrageous_ stories about Mr. Stark.

Colonel Rhodes told about the time that he and Tony hid a Walkman in the panels of an MIT classroom, the faint sounds of Madonna making the TA so angry he farted in time to the music.

Scott had given a little context about Natasha’s death for the benefit of those who’d been Blipped, and then told them about the night of her wake when he and Tony got drunk and stayed up all night running numbers on the likeliness of a universe where Mighty Mouse was real. He swore the odds were slightly better than them defeating Thanos.

Pepper shared a series of times she walked in on Tony in compromising positions, covering Morgan’s ears for every salient part. Peter had laughed _tears._

Sam Wilson, Happy and Clint, even Dr. Banner, they each took turns telling stories, mostly about Tony, but sometimes about Natasha or each other. Peter felt like a guest, but he was happy to sit with himself and just listen. He drank it all in, filing information, gleaning details and drawing parallels where he could. It was like having the thinnest of webs to hang on to, connecting him to Mr. Stark. If he gathered enough stories, maybe he’d be able to actually hold himself up.

Captain America didn’t share stories, but he laughed along with the others, sometimes leaning forward like he was hearing the exploits of Mr. Stark for the first time. He was so different from how Peter remembered him, that if not for those blue-blue eyes, he’d have thought it was a different man than the one he fought against, then with.

After a while the stories got raunchier, and the words _friend_ and _fun_ were being used almost exclusively in place of _prostitute_ and _sex_ , so Peter ducked out onto the dark balcony. As much as he wanted to feel closer to Mr. Stark, there was a line.

The balcony overlooked a narrow street unburdened by traffic, and Peter spent a few minutes tracking the tiny people who were zigzagging across the road with a sense of leisure Peter had a hard time imagining. He couldn’t quite tune out the several distinct conversations that drifted from within the suite. Rhodey and Pepper were taking turns with a particularly gross story about Mr. Stark’s fortieth birthday party. Scott and Dr. Banner were arguing about some time machine probabilities. Morgan still hadn’t figured out how to play Spider-Man, and was alternately whining and sulking about it. It was chaos that Peter was happy to let wash over him.

A few minutes later Cassie Lang joined him outside.

“The grownups are just getting _gross_ now.” She leaned against the bannister alongside him.

“I don’t believe for a second they actually did half those things, definitely not on the job _._ Look—first date—” she pointed at a couple walking out of a bagel shop, awkwardly trying to hold hands but not finding an interlock that worked for them.

“There, they figured it out,” Peter said, inching a little closer to Cassie so he could follow the couple’s progress up the street. Their elbows bumped, but Cassie didn’t move.

“As people do,” was all she said in response, and bumped his elbow lightly in return.

It sent a jolt up Peter’s arm and set his heart gasping for air. He sneaked a glance and caught her smiling at him, sure and strong and reflecting the glow of the City all around her.

He smiled back.

“So the Barton kids are kinda snobs, right?” He asked, looking back down at the street below them. It was suddenly riddled with couples.

“I know, right?” She turned to face him, breaking contact but standing much closer than she had been before. “Dad said there’d be kids my age, but they haven’t so much as looked my way. I think it’s a sibling thing.”

“I guess,” Peter shrugged, and he felt a tightening low in his stomach at the thought of what he was about to do, a devastating twisting that wasn’t unpleasant, “I guess that we single-children need to stick together,” he said, and took a step so they were even closer. Their arms brushed. Maybe he brushed something else, the electricity was back and it was hard to keep track of how nice it all felt.

“Yeah, siblings are for losers,” Cassie said easily, and their fingers interlocked effortlessly.

They stayed outside until Cassie’s dad told her it was time to go.

Peter watched her leave, his hand still pulsing where she brushed it goodbye after putting her number into his phone. She’d be staying in the City, for a bit, and… Peter couldn’t not give in to the smile. Cassie was amazing. Funny, and open, and smart, and soft, and so confident in being loved that it was hard not to love her. Or like her, Peter supposed. You needed to know someone longer than that to—at least a few years, like since freshman year, probably, to really love—

Peter followed Cassie inside, because he just kissed her and he didn’t want to think about anything or anyone else right now. The sitting area was busy, but as soon as Peter took a seat everyone melted away from him, each muttering an excuse as they retreated almost in unison towards the kitchen area near the back of the suite. Only Captain America remined, sitting on the sofa across from Peter, his reflection steady and slow and somehow present on the smooth coffee table between them.

Peter had no idea what to say.

If Mr. Rogers did, he took his time saying it. He turned his face to the large balcony doors, the orange glow of the street painting his face, making him seem far younger than his hundred-and-five years. He smiled to himself, and Peter didn’t know him well enough to tell what that smile meant beyond a general air of sadness.

No—not sadness. But something that wasn’t exactly happy.

“You know, Tony didn’t love the City.”

Peter didn’t know that, actually. He leaned a little forward.

“I mean, he grew up here, he didn’t hate it, but his heart was out west. Even before everything that happened with the Accords, he’d been meaning to go back out there. But then… He stayed. Do you know why?”

Peter shook his head and tried to say _no_ , but his mouth was too dry. But Captain American must have heard him mouthing it, because he continued as though Peter had spoken, still looking at the cityscape beyond the balcony, the sounds of cars and couples and street vendors far below them, but crystal clear nonetheless.

“He’d found a reason to stay. I—I didn’t know it at the time, I was just surprised that he stayed upstate with Rhodes. There was a lot I didn’t understand about Tony.

“I didn’t understand why he put on that gauntlet.”

The City outside stopped moving. It hung in between Steve Rogers’ words, suspended like a gasp.

“There were so many Enhanced on that field. So many. And each one of us would have been willing to do what he did, to make that sacrifice, and maybe even survive it. Rocket said that individuals can split the energy between them. We would have. I would have. Tony must have known that. He should have been able to think of a different way… And he had Morgan at home, she’s just a baby, really… I couldn’t understand why he did it.”

Peter’s mind was awhirl with answers, queries, arguments, and they all crashed into each other, leading nowhere. He couldn’t speak. He looked at the old, old face of Steve Rogers and prayed he’d answer his own question.

For a moment, Captain America only looked down onto his hands, twisting and twisting and twisting the golden ring on his fourth finger. When he spoke next it was something of a non-sequitur.

“You know I lived in a parallel dimension for a while? It... It was… Best 80 years of my life,” he said, and for the first time since the airport in Germany Peter could see a genuine smile in his eyes.

“Had a partner. Kids. And only then did I understand that Tony did what he did because he had number two.”

Peter felt the surprised disbelief paint itself across his face. Captain America couldn’t _possibly_ mean what Peter thought he heard.

“When you have one,” Captain America continued, “you do whatever you can to protect them. It’s scary, but easy. One of you, one of them. But when kid number two comes along…” He shook his head and sighed.

“When kid number two comes along you can’t physically be there for both of them. It’s the scariest thing in the world. So you do whatever you can to keep them both safe. And if they’re both in danger—like moments away from being wiped out of existence, one of them for the _second time_ —you don’t look for alternatives or a plan b or someone who can help you out. You see the opportunity and you grab it. You do what you can, as soon as you can.”

He paused, then, and returned his full attention to the space between his hands, resting in his lap. “My second was such a funny kid… We buried him last winter.” 

“I—I’m sorry,” Peter said, not sure it was the right thing, but not sure what else he could possibly offer. It wasn’t Captain America sitting across from him anymore; it was just an old man who lost a son. The sadness was tangible, it was thick, it was dark. It was insatiable and unmitigable. Peter realized, looking at him now, that _that’s_ what was different about him. It wasn’t age, it was grief. 

Steve looked up as though caught doing something he shouldn’t be, and shook his head. He sat back, and looked Peter fully in the eyes for the first time since he’d sat down.

“No, it’s alright. Eddie was 75, already had grown grandkids of his own. I got to see my great-grandkids grow up, I was luckier than most. But burying a child… I couldn’t do that more than once. It’s why I came back. And it’s why Tony did what he did.”

“I didn’t want him to,” Peter said. He couldn’t look away from those sharp blue eyes. “I would have helped, or done it myself even, but it’s not fair that he did that and now I— _we—_ ” Peter quickly corrected himself, even though he meant it, “don’t have him. It’s not fair.”

Steve shrugged. “Tough shit, kid. There isn’t a dad in this world who cares if it’s _fair._ I’ll bet you every penny I own that Clint and Scott would back me up, if we call them back in here. Wanna?”

Peter felt his face redden. No, he absolutely did not want to call in two more strangers who would lecture him on why it’s alright that Mr. Stark died. Especially not Scott, not after…

“Uh, no, Mr. Rogers. I understand.”

It was half-true. He understood what Steve was saying, but he couldn’t really let himself believe it applied. If it did, he’d lost so much more than he’d been prepared to admit. 

“No, son. I don’t think you do,” Steve called him out as he pushed himself to his feet, strong and steady despite his age. He walked around the small coffee table that separated them, and placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. It was also strong and steady.

“But that’s alright. Right now you just need to hear it. You’ll understand later.”

With a final squeeze he went to join the others in the kitchen.

Peter remained where he was, the ghosts of Cassie’s electric touch and Steve Rogers’ steady grip each sending small aftershocks up and down his arms, while a very different ghost took up most of his thoughts.

He stayed that way for a while.

**V.**

On his seventeenth birthday, Peter went to visit Tony’s grave.

He didn’t go there often, and never alone before today. It was one of the perks of losing almost everyone he loved; he couldn’t visit all their graves on a weekly basis, so he’d learned to not need it. When he was younger he’d talk to his mom under his blanket at night, and when he got older those conversations shortened to a quick _miss you_ inside his own head. Graves were a marker for something that was gone, so detached and removed and inaccessible that if you were going to pretend, you could do it anywhere.

But here he was.

He hadn’t really planned on coming. He woke up to a quiet apartment, May already gone for work. A note said she and Happy would meet him and his friends later for dinner and a movie. He was webbing his way across Queens, directionless in his explorations, when he saw the LIRR train bumping along beneath him. He’d never rode the line before, but literally the only thing he knew about Long Island was that Mr. Stark and his parents were buried there, in and old and exclusive cemetery. He had more than four hours before he needed to meet his friends and May, and nothing else to do, and he was riding along atop the train before he even realized he’d made a decision.

The ride took an hour, which Peter spent ignoring his music in favor of the same three repetitive thoughts: _this is so stupid_ , _it’s not like I have anything better to do_ , and _it’s not like I have anyone to do it with_. He kept trying to ignore those, too, but they kept sneaking back in, in various iterations and dressings, but ultimately always the same.

And they had a point. Riding a train to a cemetery he’d only been to once to find a grave he didn’t really need to visit was a pretty lousy way to spend his birthday. But he didn’t even consider getting off.

Seventeen. That somehow felt so much older than sixteen. Objectively; even without the lifetime’s worth of crap he’d lived—and died—through since his last birthday. Seventeen was so much closer to adulthood. Already he felt that people took him more seriously, like they also saw how close he was to turning the corner on childhood. Strangers called to him _hey, man_ instead of _kid,_ baristas assumed he wanted coffee and not hot chocolate, and waiters looked at him to place his order, instead of at May.

He was becoming an adult, and he liked it, and he hated the feeling that he had no one to share it with.

He jumped off the train before it pulled into the station, and webbed his way up to the roof of the station, trying to orient himself.

May was, as his most recent birthday card told her explicitly, Amayzing. But she’d always been that way and she always would be, just like she’d always call him _baby_ and worry about him like she did when he was 10. His friends were growing up at the same pace he was—a luxury he’d been taking for granted, apparently—and they didn’t see any major shift in him, anymore than he saw in them.

Mr. Stark… Tony was the one who was supposed to see that. He was the one who was supposed to look at Peter and acknowledge that he wasn’t a kid anymore, to offer him a taste of whiskey, to let himself cuss within Peter’s hearing.

It was beyond stupid to seek out his grave for that.

It was another hour to swing and ride, in intervals, to the cemetery.

The place was deserted. He was glad that the gushing—and insincere, he suspected— public admiration for Mr. Stark’s sacrifice was in one of its slumps, but he didn’t expect Tony’s tombstone to be empty of visitors and flowers, the first signs of neglect already making themselves seen on the dusty headstone.

It wasn’t right.

Peter grabbed a vase from a nearby grave, took out the flowers and laid them gently on the ground, and went to fill it with water from a hose down on the main path. He made three of four trips, until he’d washed all the dust off of Mr. Stark’s tombstone, as well as his parents’. He took extra care with Tony’s mom, because he knew Tony would have, pulling out some climbing weeds and running his finger along her name, cleaning out clumps of dirt from within the engraved stone. He replaced the flowers in fresh water, and went to sit across from Mr. Stark.

Anthony Edward Stark, the words gleamed at him, sparkling in the late afternoon sun, perfectly informative and utterly failing to convey who was interred here. Not that any words _could,_ but it still felt to Peter like false advertising.

“It’s my birthday,” he said, after a while.

“Last year you said that this year we’d make a day of it, so…” Peter shrugged lightly, and shook his head at his own idiocy. The idiocy kept coming and he couldn’t stop it.

“I had all these stupid ideas of what we’d do. You never said, but I thought maybe you’d take me somewhere cool, like on the jet, or to see _Hamilton_ or something, or be somewhere where we could casually run into my friends, so they could see I really know you.

“The Parker Program took care of that, I guess. Thanks. That was kinda cool. But I just… I just didn’t want to be alone today. Usually it’s fine, I’m used to it, but I thought, I wanted, just to have someone. For a bit. Someone who got the hero stuff, who could make Spider-Man a priority. I’m no one’s priority,” Peter whispered, and laid his forehead on his knees.

He’d never admitted that, not even to himself, but he felt deep inside, underneath all the _fine_ s and _really I’m okay_ s that it was real. May was more than he could express, but he couldn’t expect her to drop everything and offer backup during a rough mission. Peter Parker was ready to be an adult, but Spider-Man wasn’t ready to swing solo. He still needed someone to point him and be critical and just be there.

Because he was scared.

The last time Spider-Man had a big mission Tony died, and the time before that Peter died. He was scared to go at it alone, but there was no one to catch him if he fell. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said as he pushed himself to his feet. “I didn’t mean to bum you out on my birthday. I just…” He knew what he just, but there was no point in saying it. Then again, being here was pointless, too. "If there’s any way you can give a me a sign that I won’t always feel like this, that’d be awesome,” Peter said, but before he could look around for a white dove or an intricately shaped cloud, his phone rang.

He cleared his throat and said _hello_ a few times to make sure his voice was clear, then answered.

“Hey, Happy.”

“Kid. I’m in the neighborhood. You need a ride to dinner? May said she’d be going straight from work.”

Peter pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the time. _Shit._ He was supposed to be uptown in an hour and a half, and he was two hours away from home without a change of clothes. He began walking, then running towards the gates of the cemetery.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

“Uh, no, but I think I’m gonna be a little late? I got caught up in something and I need to go home and change first, I’m in my suit,” Peter huffed into the phone, as he ran along the winding road, hoping a truck would drive by so he could hitch a ride back to a more populated area.

“What’s up? You’re patrolling? Where are you?”

“Uh, nothing’s up. I’m just a little far away. Long Island,” he breathed, then bit his lip in punishment. He’d meant to lie.

Happy didn’t say anything.

Peter slowed down, then stopped, but still there was silence.

“I’ll come get you.”

“No, Happy, that’s crazy. It’s like an hour out of your way. I can make it home, I’ll just call everyone and we’ll push it back.” Peter began running again. “I’m on my way, I can come alone.”

“Pete, listen to me closely. I’m am in my car and driving out to Long Island right now. If I get there and you’re not there, I’m gonna be pissed. You understand me? Meet me by the front gate in forty minutes.”

Happy disconnected the call before Peter managed to even slow down. He was almost an hour away from the train station, and it would be another hour after that before he was in Queens. At his most optimistic, he’d be over an hour late to dinner, and they would miss the movie entirely.

He turned and began walking back towards the cemetery. Peter decided to wait like he’d been told, and Happy rolled up forty-five minutes later.

“Hey,” Happy snapped as Peter opened the rear door. “You’re not a skinny fourteen-year-old anymore. Ride upfront.” He leaned over and opened the passenger-side door for Peter, then reached into the backseat.

“Here, I stopped by your place and picked this up. Change.” He handed Peter a neatly folded dress-shirt, and slacks.

Peter looked around to make sure they were still alone, then changed outside the car. He climbed in next to Happy and ran his fingers through his hair, and then, satisfied, he finally dared to look at Happy.

“Thanks, Happy,” Peter said.

“You’re welcome.” He pulled onto a main road, and picked up speed. “You know you don’t have to wait for me to offer to come get you, right? You can ask.” Happy turned towards Peter, but only to check the mirror before merging right.

Peter opened his mouth to say he would have been fine, but Happy spoke first.

“I mean, you’re definitely old enough to manage your time better than this, but if you’re out Spider-Manning and you’re stuck, you call me. Don’t wait for me to guess you need a ride.”

Peter snapped his mouth shut as his mind stuttered. Thank y—I needed—I don’t—I will—I’ll try—Peter didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. He couldn’t even really think it. He looked at Happy, trying hard to control his thoughts enough to speak coherently.

After a moment Happy checked the mirrors again, then did a double take when he noticed Peter.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that? I won’t look back, I’m not Tony. I believe in the whole ‘eyes on the road’ thing. Call me old-fashioned.”

Peter laughed, and a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time surged within, around, all over.

“Thank you, Happy,” he said again.

Happy gripped the wheel tighter, and seemed to focus on the road even harder. “Yeah, well. You said that. But since you made me drive out to Long Island, you owe me. No—I told you, I’m not Tony. That look won’t work on me. I know this dinner was supposed to be only your friends and me and May, but I invited Bruce Banner to join us. He wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Thank you, Happy.” Peter leaned his head against the cool window.

Happy pulled into the restaurant just in time for dinner. His friends and May were already there, and Dr. Banner joined shortly after. They talked during dinner, and before the movie, and after again. They made a night of it.


	2. +I

Peter’s heart was hammering, fluttering, skipping beats, pounding. Bruce— _Bruce!_ —even called him out on it, because he said the noise was distracting him. He sent Peter to sit outside the lab with Scott while Bruce ran the final calibrations.

“Your breathing distracted him?”

Peter dropped to sit on the floor next to Scott, and shrugged excitedly. “My heartbeat. But that’s fine, he was just running the same calculations over again.”

Scott nodded. They’d run the parameters several times already, but Bruce wanted to run them once more, three runs ago. “Better safe than sorry, I guess.”

“Right. But listen, I have a question.”

Scott sat up and turned to face Peter, so he was no longer with his back against the lab wall. Peter mirrored him. It almost felt like they were about to play a game of patty-cake, but this was way too cool to care how they looked.

“Yeah, go head, shoot. Hit me. Let me have it. Ask away. This is a doubt-free mission. What’s up?”

“Oh, no, I don’t have doubts,” Peter corrected quickly. He didn’t want Scott to think he was backing out, which would make Bruce think he was backing out, and then he’d have to spend another three days convincing them that he was all in. Once was enough. “It’s just… I get that the Quantum Realm can take us to any point in the past or future, and because of Captain America we’re theorizing it can also take us to any number of multiple dimensions, assuming they’re near enough our own, right? And we’re gonna try to map those dimensions?”

“Yup, exactly. Some truly wacky dimensions could exist, but if they’re too different from ours we won’t be able to navigate there. If the probability of that dimension existing is low, we won’t have enough connecting threads from our dimension to there. We don’t have the tools to follow that map.”

“Right,” Peter nodded. “That makes sense. But how is mapping possible? I know this device—” he pointed to the watch on his wrist, atop his Spider-Man suit—”is supposed to keep track of the different dimensions. But I don’t see how that can work. By definition, those dimensions are excluded from ours. How can we track where they are when our spatial reality precludes them?”

“Well, you’ll probably need Professor Big Brain”— _I can hear you_ , Bruce shouted from within the lab—“to run the actual numbers for you, but it’s like this: We _can’t_ map other dimension from this one, exactly for the reason you said. That’s what Hank’s been working on since he came back: This map… It’s like that book, _Flatland_? You read that? You can’t even conceive of another dimension if you’re in your own. A square can’t imagine a cube, because it doesn’t know what “up” is. You can only reduce dimensions. Conceptually, that is. Unless, you’re standing above the paper.

“That’s what the Quantum Realm is. We won’t be able to make sense of the readings out here, but in _there,_ ” Scott pointed toward the wall of the lab and the machine beyond it, “inside the Quantum Realm, we’ll be able to see a map of all the different dimensions, and how they interconnect and where they split off. Every dimension we visit will be logged. That’s your job—though I still think I could do it.”

“You can’t, you’re not Enhanced. We talked about this,” Bruce said, poking his head out of the lab. “Come on, we’re ready.”

Scott rose to his feet, then offered Peter a hand and pulled him up, as well.

“Show time.”

The followed Bruce into the lab, Scott stepping aside to allow Bruce to a final once-over on Peter’s suit, slightly altered to provide him protection from the Quantum Realm. They didn’t get a lot of information regarding interdimensional travel from Steve, but Bruce suspected that the forces at play could only be withstood by Enhanced individuals. He would have gone himself, he’d told Peter, but his arm was still in a sling, even all these months later; and he thought Spider-Man would be a lot more inconspicuous than the Hulk, anyway.

“Alright, looking good,” Bruce said, and clapped an enormous hand on Peter’s shoulder, causing Peter to stumble forward. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely been knocked off his feet by a casual touch. Bruce apologized, then ran through today’s plan _again_.

“We’re gonna send you to the ally behind the Baxter Building. Stay there for a few minutes, then press this button—” he pointed to the left side of Peter’s device—“to come back. The point right now is just to tag as many alternative dimensions as we can. We’ll explore later, if at all. We don’t know what the risks are with tampering with other realities. We know these worlds are relatively close to our own, but we don’t know specifics. No exploring! You got that?” Bruce lowered his glasses to peer at Peter over the frame. He was somewhere between the Hulk and a teacher, and both were intimidating.

“Yeah, got it,” Peter said. “No exploring. Just standing above the paper to see the squares.”

Bruce sighed, and Peter’s bangs waved a bit in the wind of his exhale. “You explained that really poorly,” he said to Scott as he took position behind his console.

“That’s how Hank explained it to me.”

“Then Hank gave you a very simplified version. You ready, Pete?”

Peter stood on his mark, and nodded. He lowered his mask.

“Why do we need a complicated version if the simple one works?”

“Three, two, one _and—_ why _”_

Peter stayed exactly the same, but the world grew and shifted and colored itself in deranged imagination around him. He seemed to fly through it—literally to cross atoms with it—until he couldn’t tell where he ended and the world began. When it re-formed he was out of breath and his eyeballs were dizzy, but he was standing in the familiar alley behind the Baxter—he looked up, no, it was still Avenger’s Tower. He wondered if he really was in an alternate dimension, or if he’d just gone to the past. He looked at the watch, but it was dead while anchored in a reality.

Peter counted till thirty, then pressed the button. When the world grew around him again he looked at the watch, and in the light of the Quantum Realm he could see two dots connected by curving threads. His reality and the one he’d just visited.

“—would you even want a simplified explanation when I know you can understand the real one?”

“Oh, my _God,_ that was insane!” Peter shouted, running down the platform and up to Bruce and Scott. “It was… I can’t—It was Avenger’s Tower, not the Baxter building, that means it worked, right? And the watch—when I was inside, it showed two points! If we add more destinations, we can estimate how often reality branches—it’s an unlimited event horizon on all of reality!”

“See?” Bruce said wryly, and nudged Scott with his elbow.

Peter did nine more jumps before something went wrong.

In two of the jumps it was Avenger’s Tower, in four it was the Baxter Building, once it was a lavish looking Doom Enterprises, and once it was Potts Plaza. The alley was deserted in all jumps but his third one—where he saw another version of himself materialize in the alleyway at the same time he did. He’d barely had time to point and open his mouth before his brain caught up with what he was seeing and decided it was the worst idea ever, and hurriedly pressed the button to return.

The next jump was screwy.

Peter materialized in the alley, and quickly looked up to see the Baxter Building again. He walked to the mouth of the alley and prepared to push his button—he really was just about to—when he heard the muffled cries of a woman.

He listened more closely, and the sound of a man telling her to _just shut up_ and a clatter, and then the woman was crying.

This didn’t count as exploring.

Peter ran out of the alley and towards the sound, on the opposite side of the street.

Which was almost exactly how he remembered it, but not. There were people in the street and shops, but there were too few of either. People looked up at the sounds of distress, but no one made a move to investigate or help. Even the cars Peter passed on the road seemed languid, like literally everyone was dealing with something right now. No one looked… happy, or even neutral. He reached the other side of the road just as a car drove off. The woman, still crying, was just sitting up from where she’d been thrown against an abandoned-looking construction dumpster. She pulled herself up, leaning heavily against the blue scaffolding, and pointed after the car.

“He took my baby,” she sobbed.

Peter took off after the car. He leaped and webbed a lamppost, gaining height and building speed as he trailed the car. The driver raced through intersections, cutting corners like a madman as he tried to lose Peter. There were some _what the hell_ s, but for the most part people just stood back, allowing the car to pass, before returning to their own concerns.

A few people seemed to notice Peter from their windows, some pointing, some scowling, but he didn’t stop to wave or make conversation. Several minutes later he webbed the rear tires of the car, swung ahead of it, and webbed the front tires, as well. The car skidded to stop in the middle of the road, almost tipping over before Peter landed nearby and pulled it into balance.

He wrenched the door open and pulled out the creep who’d been driving.

“Kidnapping is _not nice,_ ” Peter told him, and flipped him, hard, onto the hood of the car.

“That bitch is mine!”

“Uh, that’s not nice, either,” Peter said, and webbed the man’s middle to the hood.

The backseat was empty. Oh, God. Had the baby somehow been flung from the car? Peter began looking down the way they’d come, when he heard heavy breathing and a small yelp from the front seat.

The heavy breathing of the tiniest pug Peter had ever seen.

She was wearing a bow.

Peter pulled her out of the car.

“Are you kidding me? Is this the baby you took?”

“Her _name_ is Baby, and I didn’t take her, I own her. I told you, she’s mine. That succubus gets her only on weekdays, but it’s the weekend and she’s _mine!”_

Adrenaline, tension, and fear all rolled away just as the ex drove up in her own car.

“Baby!” She called, and held out her hands to take the dog. Peter lifted it over his head.

“You know what? Not cool, ma’am. You said he took your baby.”

“You’re one to talk about not cool,” she spat indignantly, looking him up and down. “I’d say that suit’s pretty horrible, today of all days!”

Peter looked down at his nanotech suit.

“She’s right, you know. That is pretty bad taste.” The man looked at Peter like he pitied his poor choices.

“Yeah, well,” Peter said, and with a quick shot webbed the woman to the rear of the car, and the dog’s leash to the steering wheel. “You all work out your custody without me. You’re welcome,” he muttered, and swung up the nearest building.

What was wrong with his suit?

He began making his way back towards the Baxter building. He was reasonably sure that he’d return to the lab regardless of where he was when he pushed the button, but he didn’t want to risk doing anything else that might constitute going off-script.

He’d made it to the roof of the coffee shop across from the alley—where he’d sat with Happy before Steve’s birthday—and was about to jump down when a massive shadow passed overhead. Before he could follow its trajectory it crashed onto the roof behind him, an audible _crack!_ cutting across the concrete from where it landed.

Peter looked up enormous dress pants, and fancy jacket, a meticulously set bowtie, and a furious green face.

“That suit’s in extremely poor taste,” Bruce said, and punched Peter straight in the face.

~*~

Peter woke up to a pounding headache, a cement block pressing down on his chest, and what he suspected might be a broken eye socket that pounded in separate, fiery pulses from the ache in his head. He was lying on the roof across from the Baxter building, two shadows looming over him. He made an effort to stand, but the cement block—green and huge and attached to the Hulk’s leg—pressed down harder. Peter gasped for air.

“Who are you?”

Peter helplessly tried to breathe, not sure how to answer. He definitely wasn’t supposed to interact with this dimension’s Bruce and Rhodes. Then again, he hadn’t been terribly discreet earlier. Between the webs and the suit, it felt foolish to deny it.

“Spider-Man,” he panted. 

“You’re not,” Bruce said simply, his eyes hard. “And to show up here, _today,_ wearing _that_ , is either extremely cruel or extremely stupid. Which is it?” The foot shifted again, and it was being crushed by a falling building, it was no air and no light. He struggled; the suit tried to send out its Iron Spider legs to scrabble for purchase, but the pressure the Hulk was exerting was massive, inescapable.

“Listen, kid,” Rhodey said, “maybe you thought this was going to be a funny prank. We can deal with that. But we need to know what’s happening here. Why don’t you take off the mask before this goes any f—”

Peter forgot he’d been wearing it, and if it would help, he didn’t need to be told twice. He maneuvered the commands as best he could with his good eye, and the mask retracted. He threw his head back at the bright morning light, stretching himself thin as he tried to cheat air into his lungs.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhodey said, then more urgently, “Bruce, Bruce! Give him some air.”

The Hulk took an extra moment to do so, and when he did it was with an air of tacit belligerence. Peter rolled onto his hands and knees, gasping and coughing and holding his ribs.

“Don’t even think about taking off,” Bruce warned him, but Peter was still trying to breathe. He didn’t think he’d be able to stand, much less make a run for it. Not to mention that they’d taken the device. He had no way of getting home.

Peter clambered to his knees, still catching his breath as one hand rested on his thigh, the other went around his aching middle.

“How did you…know….that I wasn’t from here?”

“Kid, I think we’re the ones who are owed a game of twenty questions,” Rhodes said, offering Peter a steadying hand. Peter accepted it gratefully and climbed to his feet. Everything _ow_ , everywhere.

“Rhodey,” Hulk said, stepping closer, causing Peter to take a step back, “are you sure?”

“I fought with Spider-Man only the once, but I met Peter Parker a few times. It’s him, Bruce. _How are you here?_ ”

Peter felt helpless. He was kind of sorry he hadn’t taken Bruce’s warning about interfering a little more seriously, because now he knew what Bruce was like when he was pissed.

“I—I’m from another timeline. I can’t really say more or Bruce will _kill_ me. Our Bruce, that is,” Peter quickly corrected. “Uh, our Dr. Banner?” He tried again.

But it seemed Bruce wasn’t concerned about his title. “You expect us to believe you’re from, what, a parallel reality? And you being here is just an interdimensional accident?”

“Yes?”

“And what, Thanos just never happened where you live?”

Barely two weeks ago Peter had been sitting alone at a grave in Long Island. He looked down when he answered, “No, he definitely happened.” 

“Prove it,” Rhodes said.

“That Thanos killed everyone?”

“That you’re really from a different dimension and not some trick by some sicko who’s trying to hurt Tony on his wedding day.”

His _wedding day._ The one Peter had missed because he was Blipped.

“Please, Colonel Rhodes, I didn’t even know that was today. I don’t know what today _is._ Movement was supposed to be only lateral across the dimensional axis, the time and space axes were supposed to remain constant. He already got married in my timeline.”

“Well, regardless,” Bruce cut in, “we’re gonna need some proof you’re who you say you are. Our Peter Parker is—he’s, gone. If you’re really Peter from another timeline you’ll know where he was when Thanos used the Stones? Who was with him?”

Peter answered earnestly. It was as good a test as any. There were very few people who would know that.

“I was on Titan with Mr. Stark. That’s where Thanos used to live. The other Peter was there, and the blue lady, and the big guy and a bug lady, and Dr. Strange. I don’t know if you know Dr. Strange, he was new. He did twirly magic and he had the Time Stone. Almost everyone disappeared before me. I was last.

“The Dr. Banner, where I’m from, sent me to try and map alternate timelines. I’m not supposed to interact at all,” Peter added in defeat. 

The two adults exchanged a tentative look.

“Fits with what Nebula told us,” Bruce offered.

“And what Tony told me.”

“And it _is_ like me to be cautious about altering other timelines with non-native information, especially if the horizon wave-function isn’t standardized.”

“So we believe him?”

Banner pulled out the device that had been on Peter’s wrist. “I’m not saying I do, but this _could_ be a quantum-topology marker.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

“Should we tell Tony?”

The possibility was like a slap in the face. “No, no no no, you absolutely can _not_ tell Mr. Stark,” Peter all but pled, looking from one to the other. “Please, you can’t. What if it changes your timeline? He needs to get married and have Morgan and in a few years he’ll see me again.”

 _For a few minutes._ Maybe he should change that. It wasn’t like Peter got a choice in his timeline. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst to—Peter stopped that line of thought. He wasn’t here to change anything. What if he made things worse?

“He’s right about screwing with the timeline,” Bruce said, and tossed the device back to Peter. He caught it with one hand, and reaffixed it to his wrist. “Even if he’s wrong about Morgan.”

Peter didn’t ask, but his face must have painted the question clearly enough.

“Morgan’s almost two,” Rhodey answered.

Timelines are different. It didn’t mean anything. Maybe Morgan was even a boy in this reality? It wasn’t Peter’s problem. He readied to push the button to bring him home.

“Well, she was born a little later in my timeline. But in any case, when Scott comes along this will all make sense to you.”

“Scott?” Rhodes asked. “You mean Tiny Man? He got dusted with everyone else seven years ago.”

Seven years? Peter’s hand hovered over the activation button. He could ignore that. It didn’t mean anything that he hadn’t come out of the Quantum Realm. Maybe Ant-Man really had been dusted, and in this timeline Thanos wins.

This timeline where everything is as grey as Tony said it was in that video. Where New York is empty, broken, and decrepit. Where people fight over custody of pugs.

Okay, that last one might be true also in his universe, but he was trying not to think of the real reason he hesitated. Of the person who’d told a room full of kids that the world was gray. That he might— _might_ —be able to help add some color back. Because the world wasn’t better like this. It, and its people, were hollow and empty.

He dropped both arms to his side.

“Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

~*~

They snuck Peter inside the Baxter Building, to the same suite where they celebrated Cap’s birthday. Peter had a tickling sense of a do-over, because Steve Rogers was sitting on the sofa when they walked in. He somehow looked even more fragile than he had as an old man. He wasn’t plagued by grief, but somehow that made him seem more empty, instead of more full. The clear lines of his suit couldn’t hide a slight slump to his shoulders, like he was trying—very gradually—to cave in on himself.

It took him much less time to believe Peter than the other two. He seemed eager to, and after Bruce told him that Peter came from a timeline where they defeated Thanos, it was like Steve was dropped in Oz; color swept over him, illuminating every part of him brighter, sharper, more _there._

Peter began explaining what he knew—now regretful that he hadn’t listened closer—about Scott’s disappearance. He tried desperately to recreate what he’d heard at the party. Something about a storage unit? Once Bruce understood that Scott was trapped in the Quantum Realm, he took over explaining to the others how Scott can still be alive after all this time.

Peter was half-listening, half trying to work out how much more he should tell them. If he was going to change this timeline, he was going to do everything he could to make it better. There must be a way to break the cycle of sacrifice. A door behind them slammed open and then shut.

“Rogers?” A familiar voice sang out.

Peter’s mask was up in an instant, the reaction almost instantaneous now that his eye was less swollen. He ducked behind Bruce, but the others rounded on Steve. “You called him?” Rhodey hissed.

“Yes, I called him!” Steve whispered forcefully. “Hiding the truth about _another_ dead family member? My memory isn’t so swell, Rhodes. Remind me how well that went last time?”

“Swell?” Rhodes dropped the argument—it was obviously too late to do anything about it—in favor a judgmental look. “No one’s said that word in 70 years, man.”

“It’s coming back,” Steve shrugged. Mr. Stark entered the main sitting area.

Peter focused on taking short, deliberate breaths from where he stood behind Bruce. He didn’t know, he didn’t know how much he missed that voice until he heard it, so close.

“This had better not be an emergency, my happy little sidekicks. Pepper will kill me if we postpone a third tim—” He stopped so abruptly it was like someone had muted him. Peter could feel eyes on him, all of them. His tingly sense was humming, but not in danger.

“What is this?” Mr. Stark breathed, and Bruce shifted to follow his gaze, finally realizing that Peter was behind him.

“Oh—come on,” Bruce twisted lightly, holding Peter in place and maneuvering himself so he stood behind Peter.

“What is this,” Tony asked again, barely, dropping his white tux jacket to the floor.

Rhodey laid a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “We’re still figuring it out, Tones. Just—breath.”

“What is this? Who? —no one else…” Tony wasn’t addressing anyone in particular, but then he collected himself, ready for a fight.

“Where did you get that suit?” Mr. Stark demanded, his eyes wide, unblinking. And cold.

“Tony, it’s not what you think,” Bruce said. “We need to explain. Stop hiding,” he added, lightly nudging Peter.

Peter couldn’t move. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t do anything. He’d been doing fine on his world, he thought. But seeing Mr. Stark now, alive and there and whole, not yet forced to decide between his life and everyone else’s, it paralyzed him. There was so much he wanted to say, to update him, to ask, to explain, and it all got stuck, because Mr. Stark was alive. He was real.

“I will kill you myself if you don’t start answering,” Mr. Stark said. A swift movement and his right hand was now adorned with an Iron gauntlet, the repulsor humming in warning. He pointed it at Peter. “Where _the hell_ did you get that suit? I made only one version of it, and it—” Mr. Stark stopped himself short. Looked away, like he didn’t want to confront what he was about to say. Then he looked back, his eyes livid and his hand steady.

Peter wasn’t sure if he really was allowed to speak.

Steve stepped in between them. “Tony, I called you here to listen, not to kill him. I promise, you want to hear what he has to say.”

Mr. Stark lowered his arm a fraction, but the repulsor remained fired-up.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter said, and swallowed as Tony recoiled slightly at the name, “you gave me this suit outside the spaceship. It disappeared with me on Titan, and it came back when I did. I promise, I’m me. I’m not supposed to be here, it’s… It’s a different timeline thing, okay? I can retract the mask if you want. But I’m not here to cause any trouble, I swear. I’m me.”

Tony remained taut. “Fri?” 

“Yes, Boss?”

“Does this suit respond to our protocols?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Peekaboo override.”

A light breeze washed over Peter, but the room was otherwise deathly still.

Tony drew a breath that was more of a gasp, and would have fallen to his knees if not for Rhodey stepping up to support him. He was shaking his head slowly, breathing heavily. The disbelief on his face blended into hurt, like the very being of Peter was causing him pain.

Peter was watching himself fall into a black hole. Mr. Stark was poised between shock and an actual reaction that would never happen, and all Peter could do was hold his breath, forever, waiting to see what was next. Tony stared like his world ended, and Peter couldn’t blink. Tony’s eyes were seeing a terrible, dangerous stranger, and Peter prayed for recognition. It lasted an eternity before Peter found his voice.

“Mr. Stark, please don’t look at me like that,” Peter begged. The break in his voice pushed Tony over some invisible edge. He shut his eyes like the pain was too great, and shook off Rhodey’s supporting hands. He took a deliberate step forward.

Peter stepped closer. He wasn’t sure who initiated the hug, but they were each holding the other fiercely, the embrace a desperate necessity for long minutes. Peter felt Tony’s hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer as he inhaled deeply, and Peter buried his face in Mr. Stark’s shoulder even though he was crumpling his dress shirt.

When they pulled apart Peter saw the mess he’d made. He swiped at his eyes in embarrassment. “I’m sorr—”

Tony grabbed both his shoulders.

“Don’t you ever say those words to me again, you hear me?” When Peter huffed noncommittally, he added, “How? _”_

They caught him up.

“That’s… All kinds of no,” Tony said, sitting on the sofa beside Peter and Steve. One hand was still on Peter’s shoulder. “Quantum fluctuation messes with the Planck scale. Pete,” he smiled to himself, then repeated, “Pete, the fact that you’re here proves that that triggers the Deutch proposition: you end up in an alternative reality, with no way to get home.”

“But I have a way to get home,” Peter said, offering forward his wrist.

Tony looked over the device. “But there’s no way to create quantum orientation, unless—would a non-orientable model—” He stopped, closing his eyes in thought for a moment. When he opened them he turned to Bruce, opening and closing his fist like he trying to grasp a fleeting thought before it evaded him. “If—before you started—you initiated a quantum fluctuation across a Möbius band, that _might_ ensure you returned to the point of origin, if you accounted for the outlying flux indicators…”

He trailed off, then shook himself. “It _could_ work. But—” and here Tony shifted again, moving his hand to Peter’s knee, “that wouldn’t have worked for Lang because Hank Pym didn’t account for any of that in advance. If he’s been in quantum flux for seven years, there’s no telling which universe he’s in, or how time affected him. If your Lang survived that, that’s… That’s a billion-to-one fluke.”

Peter turned to fully face Mr. Stark. “What if it’s a fourteen million, six hundred and four-to-one fluke?”

Tony stared at him. Peter raised his eyebrows and shrugged. It could be.

“What—what’s happening here?” Rhodes asked. “That still sounds like pretty bad odds.”

Once again Peter felt time shift around him, like he and Tony were observing one another to an effect only they could feel. He allowed every moment of disappointment, grief, and pocket of solace from the last few months etch itself across his face, emotions being felt for the first time again. Tony’s eyes widened, his dismissal slowly losing its coherence, as implications dawned on him faster than Peter could fathom what they might be.

“Well, we need it to work just the once,” Tony nodded, still looking at Peter. Then he looked up and said, “Friday? How long till the reception?”

“Two and a half hours, Boss.”

Tony stood, and offered a hand to Peter, pulling him to his feet.

“Let’s go check Strange’s math.”

~*~

In the end, Bruce and Steve took a jet to find Scott. Even with Peter’s vague descriptor of, “sketchy van, but from the olden days” Friday was able to find the storage facility easily, and they expected it should take them just over an hour to make the roundtrip out to the West Coast, if they put pedal to the quinjet metal.

Peter had argued that he should go, but Tony vetoed that immediately since being spotted in that suit would certainly keep drawing negative attention. Spider-Man’s death was as widely mourned as Tony’s wedding was celebrated. In retaliation, Tony had suggested that he should go since he’s the best qualified to operate the quantum tunnel to release Lang, but everyone had vetoed that simultaneously, since he was _getting married in two hours, what’s wrong with you, man._

Shortly after Bruce and Steve left, the others were quick to leave Tony and Peter alone.

Tony poured himself a drink, and upon a moment’s consideration prepared one for Peter as well. “It’s just a mimosa, and you’re technically twenty-three in this timeline, but don’t tell May.” He handed Peter the drink.

“Or, maybe do tell her. I’m dead in your world, right? So she’s not the boss of me anymore.”

Peter raised his eyes to Mr. Stark. Tony was looking right at him, sincere, kind, and already reflecting the knowledge Peter had wanted to desperately to hide.

“I recognize the design of that device. It has my style all over it. But that thing on your wrist… An engineer did not build that. I’d never send you into the void in tech I designed but someone else built, you know that.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, and it was small. As small and inadequate as the thought of Tony’s death always made him.

For a moment, Tony looked as helpless as Peter felt. “Oh, kid,” he shook his head, and then put down his glass and pulled Peter into another hug.

“Was it worth it?”

“Depends who you ask,” Peter said into Tony’s chest.

“Did we bring everyone back?”

Peter pulled away from the hug to nod, but stayed within arm’s reach. Tony guided him to the sitting area.

“Um, yeah. You brought everyone back, everyone in the universe. You’re the only Avenger who… in the battle.”

“There’s always a fucking battle… Why was there a battle? Didn’t we—they—kill Thanos back in 2018?”

Peter hesitated. This seemed like the non-native information both Bruces warned him about. But then again, if Scott hadn’t come back, it seemed like they missed their chance already. Peter was the one-in-a-billion fluke, now. He opened his mouth to answer, but Tony spoke first.

“You know what,” he placed a finger on his lips, “we don’t need to know. We’ll figure it out and the pieces will fall where they fall.”

Mr. Stark spoke with resignation, as though he was already prepared to die a hero. Like Peter could let that happen a second time. He would share everything he knew about the heist and the battle, any little bit of information he could recall that might help this world come off a little better.

Except he didn’t know how to start, and it occurred to him that he didn’t really want to. Once he told them what he knew about the heist and the battle he could go home, and he didn’t want to. He stalled.

“I’m sure this isn’t what you thought your wedding day would look like.” Peter readjusted in his seat besides Tony. Tony leaned slightly in.

“Do you know what today is?”

“Uh, your wedding day?”

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes. “Tell your Banner he really needs to add planar orientation to that thing. It’s August tenth.” He bumped Peter’s knee with his own, the gesture somehow affectionate and exasperated and vulnerable at the same time.

“You’re getting married on… on my—?” Peter released an incredulous, confused sound. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Tony looked down at his own hands, full with an invisible weight. “I held you in my arms and watched you disappear. You know what I was thinking? Nothing. I was paralyzed because it couldn’t be happening. But it did, and I’d do anything to undo that. Until today that wasn’t an option, it wasn’t a dream. So you gotta do the next best thing to keep the ones you—to keep them close. You know?”

Mr. Stark glanced at Peter. “Yeah, you know.” His hand hovered over Peter’s knee, hesitant, before he returned it to his own lap.

“Pete, having you here, today, is too good to be true. It’s…” Tony now ran a hand up and down his face, up again, through his carefully styled hair, back down to hold his mouth, like he was trying to bar the next words from being spoken.

As soon as he removed his hand the words tumbled out.

“Kid, except for Morgan, having you here is the best thing to have happened to me in the last seven years. And I’m stalling now because…” a sigh, “I don’t want to send you back and risk not seeing you again.”

With that he sat back, and took a sip of his drink. Not knowing what to say, Peter did the same. The bubbly orange juice was fresh, and the burst of flavor was the most _lively_ thing about this timeline.

Did Peter like booze?

They let the conversation turn to timeline peculiarities after that—how Tony’s Morgan was a strawberry-blonde and what games she loved best (Peter lingered on that) and how there seemed to be dimensionally inevitable Pepsi-jingles. He had just tipped back the last of his drink when Friday announced that the others had returned, and that Tony was needed in the landing bay.

Tony shrugged on his tux jacket as he led Peter up to higher floors where the bay was located. It was Peter’s first time this high up in the Baxter Building, and he was torn between his desire to take everything in and his even bigger desire to not be seen.

“Do you know Reed Richards?”

Tony’s hand lightly squeezed Peter’s shoulder as they walked. “Sure. I mean, as much as anyone knows him. The super-genius community is small. I gave him a good deal on the building, he gives me good rates on the floors I lease for the Avengers. Have you met him?”

“What—me? No, no way. He isn’t like you, he doesn’t meet… regular people. He doesn’t put his genius back out into the world.”

“It’s because he forgets, not because he doesn’t care. But if I’m gone… He’ll step up. Give him time.”

The silence held between them for a moment.

“It wasn’t right that you died. For the world. Sometimes I think…It can’t have been worth it.”

“Well, tough shit,” Tony said as they entered the landing bay, and Peter was suddenly wrapped on all sides by the most staggering sense of déjà vu. He tried to place it—but he’d never been in Avengers’ Tower with Tony, and he’d obviously never spoken to him about his own death. But the feeling that he’d had this conversation before was compounded when Tony continued, like he was reinforcing something Peter already knew. “Kids don’t get to decide what’s worth it. That’s a one-way street. And if there was a way to keep the kids—everyone—safe, well, I’m glad that other-me took it. What’s—did you bring the entire _van?_ ”

They did. Bruce and Steve hadn’t known how to reverse the Quantum Tunnel, and Bruce hadn’t wanted to dick around with it and risk losing Scott forever. So they’d loaded the whole thing onto the jet and brought it back. Rhodes and Natasha joined them while Steve backed the van out of the jet and Peter fell in beside them, forming a neat semicircle around the rear of the van.

Tony rolled his eyes and muttered about doing the heavy lifting, but it took him less than a minute to figure out how the thing worked, and how to reverse the engagement.

Even knowing what to expect, even having gone through it himself, Peter was still surprised when Scott went from being not there to _right there._ Peter couldn’t tell if Scott or the others were more confused; Scott stuttered, “What the hell, Han—wait, you’re not… You’re, are we friends now?” at Tony right before him, and the others standing a little way back. They, on their part, couldn’t tear their eyes from each other, the truth of Scott’s survival just barely breathing fresh hope where they thought there was none.

It was amusing to watch until Scott asked about Hope and Cassie. Peter blushed deeply, looked to the ground, and stupidly tried to shove his hands into pockets he didn’t have. Tony saw all that, and immediately drew the right conclusion.

“Oh, be still my quantum state. Peter, are you sweet on Cassie Lang?”

Peter looked up at Tony, mortified. “What—no! I mean,” He looked to Nat, then to Bruce, but their amusement indicated they wouldn’t step in to help him. “I mean, I like her, I mean, she’s nice, we only kissed like a couple of times—” Scott’s confused look turned to an angry glare—“I mean, she totally kissed me, she wanted to—“

The only upshot was that he never had to finish that awkward explanation. Scott’s anger turned into a murderous rage as he lunged at Peter.

“You son-of-a—”

Peter ducked behind Natasha, who was closest, while Tony and Steve stepped forward to bodily check Scott from advancing further. It wasn’t as easy as it should have been.

“Hey—”

“Lang, calm down, we can talk—”

“ _TALK_?” Scott wormed an arm through a break between his captors and made another grab at Peter. Natasha smacked his hand away.

That seemed to collect him somewhat. Scott pulled back, and made a show of breathing calmly and dusting off invisible dirt from his suit. He held both hands up to prove he was done attacking. Tony and Steve gave him a joint skeptical look for an extra moment, then backed off.

Peter dared to move out from behind Natasha. “It was technically a different,” he started, but his _tingle!_ began to do its thing and Scott was lunging again and Peter was so _tired_ of being assaulted by Avengers in this timeline and he leapt straight up, webbed a patch of ceiling to his right, and this time landed on Bruce’s shoulder.

“Can you—” He begged incoherently, but Bruce seemed to get it. When Scott corrected course, the Hulk stopped him in his tracks with a well-placed hand on the top of his head.

“Hey, Ant Man? You missed a few key details.”

Scott struggled against Bruce’s hand like a cartoon, unable to find enough purchase to move under its weight, but fighting to nonetheless. “Details? She’s not yet eleven, how’s that for a detail?”

Oh, _ew._

Oh, _ohhh._

The others seemed to come to the same series of conclusions as Peter. Tony and Rhodes made eye-contact they immediately regretted, as they each looked away in an attempt not to laugh at Peter’s plight and Scott’s misinformed fury.

Steve and Natasha took a step closer to Scott, placing firm, restraining hands on him. After a moment, Tony joined them, his expression now somber.

Bruce grabbed Peter around the waist, gently, and lowered his to the ground, an arm’s length distance away from Scott.

“Lang,” Steve said, and his voice was commanding, calm, and inarguable. Scott stopped trying to get to Peter and turned his distressed look to Steve, but it was Tony who spoke next, kindly, already holding up his wrist where a holographic image of Cassie, a school picture maybe, stood shimmering.

“In order of importance: Cassie’s fine. Her mother’s fine. But she’s not ten anymore. You were in the Quantum Realm for seven years. You missed a lot.”

More catching up. More questions.

Surprisingly, ready belief.

By the time Scott had digested the fact that he’d lost seven years that included the apocalypse and Peter explained everything he knew about the time-heist and the final battle, Bruce and Rhodey were whispering to Tony about press impatience and guests arriving, nudging him with impatient looks.

Peter’s pulse quickened.

Right. Tony’s wedding.

The instability of his presence there hit him like a wave. These weren’t his people. He hadn’t kissed this-Scott’s Cassie, and he wasn’t meant to be at this-Tony’s wedding. He could—would—be gone in a blink, and there was nothing standing between him and his return home, not really.

Tony looked at him, instead of towards the door where Rhodey was gesturing with a tilt of his head.

“You guys go ahead, tell Pep I’ll be right down? Lang, if you’ll hang around for the wedding, after someone can take you to see your kid.”

“Will there be food?”

Rhodey and Tony rolled their eyes together, that time.

“Come on, let’s get you suited up,” Steve said. On his way out he stopped by Peter and offered him a hand. Peter extended his own and shook, allowing himself to apply firm pressure like Ben taught him all those years ago. He rarely got to do that when he met new people.

“If this works… You saved a lot of lives, kid.”

Peter half-smiled, half-grimaced his embarrassment. “Just don’t forget, you have to be the one to put the Stones back, after. I mean… If.”

Steve squeezed his hand again in affirmation, and left. For all that Peter wanted them to do this right, some things shouldn’t change. If Eddie could make Steve Rogers laugh, Peter couldn’t take that away from him.

“Sorry for the whole…” Scott mimed lunging for Peter, shrugged, and left with Steve.

The others didn’t stay long after that. Rhodes shook Peter’s hand, then Hulk. They wished him good luck, and went to find Pepper.

Only Natasha and Tony remained, standing with Peter outside Scott’s van. Natasha folded her arms over her gleaming black dress, adjusted her bowtie, then took a step closer to Peter.

“If you get a chance, tell your Clint that Hungary called, and it wants its guilt-trip back. He’ll know what that means.” She ran her hands up and down her bare arms as though chilly, but her eyes never left his. Peter nodded.

“Don’t get maudlin, Romanoff,” Tony said, his abruptness tearing through the heaviness that settled between them. “We’re about the invent time travel and save the world. Minimum casualties this time around. We do it once, and we do it right. Right?” Tony smiled crookedly at Peter and winked.

“Do it once and do it right,” Natasha repeated, and untucked her arms from around her middle. She stood to her full height, tall and dark and radiant. “Not unlike getting married, Tony. As dual groomsman and bridesmaid, I’m afraid I have to insist you get downstairs.” She wrapped a stray curl back into her updo.

“Neither Pepper nor Tony have many friends,” she said to Peter. “I’ve had to step up. Hungary wants its guilt-trip back, okay?” She smiled at Peter, raised her eyebrows at Tony, and left. Peter could hear her waiting just outside the door.

For an interminable moment, no on said anything. Then, they spoke together.

“Should I tell Pepper anything?”

“So I guess this is it, huh?”

They smiled.

“Tony, I don’t—”

“I’m not really—”

They both stopped short. Then,

“Tony? That’s new.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t think—I didn’t mean—”

“Kid.” Tony stepped closer and held Peter’s shoulders. “I’m serious, no apologizing. And Tony’s fine. I’ve wanted you to call me that since… a long time ago. Don’t tell Pepper anything. I want to believe that if _her_ Tony died, he made things right by her beforehand.”

Peter nodded. This wasn’t Pepper’s Tony. He wasn’t really Peter’s, either. He raised a hand to the device on his wrist, but Tony knocked it away before he could even touch it.

“Don’t you dare disappear while I’m holding you, not again. Jesus.”

The fell again into silence. It was deep, and threatened forever.

“Promise me you’ll try not to die?” Peter looked up at Tony, and allowed himself the shuddering breath he’d been denying since Tony’s funeral service. He could feel his eyes dry in the instant before they wetted, and he did nothing to control or stop it.

“We’ll do this once and we’ll do it right,” Tony answered. “We’ll wait for Carol, we’ll get enough particles, we’ll anticipate the army, we’ll share the power of the Stones. We’ll figure out what’s on Vormir before we go there, yes. But if it comes to it… Pete, you need to know it will always be worth it. Dying, I mean. When you have the chance to protect more than one—” a thousand options flitted across Tony’s face, before he settled on—“person—” the unsaid options faded out of possibility, but their shadow remained, unspoken and unseen yet present—”you don’t think twice. I’m the smartest person in the world, and I say it’s worth it. Yeah?”

Peter wanted to argue. He wanted to say that Tony was wrong, but there was a part of him, a deep, unspeaking part, that longed to accept what Tony was giving him. That yearned to believe that he was worth it to Tony, to coalesce all the parts of solace he’d assembled over the last few months into a solid picture, a solid truth. So he nodded, both to Tony and to himself, and that silent, consumptive part of him broke apart with relief at having been heard.

“C’mon, look a little happier. Fri? You got an angle?” Tony pulled Peter around so one hand was on his shoulder. “Smile, kid. It’s my wedding day.”

Peter hastily wiped his eyes and offered a weak smile. Then Tony pulled him close and Peter really smiled.

“Upload to Peter’s suit, local storage, yeah?”

“Done, Boss.”

A discreet knock on the door reminded Tony that Nat was waiting outside. He looked to Peter, and the fullness in his eyes mirrored Peter’s.

“What if I’m forgetting something? I’m just sure that I’m missing something big, Tony, and I won’t get another chance to tell you,” Peter said, and he didn’t bother to wipe his eyes or control his voice, not any more than Tony did.

“Pete, there’s always something more to say to the people you love. That’s what makes the relationship worth having.” The softness of his voice was belied by the force with which he pulled Peter into a hug, a crushing one, despite the fact that he wasn’t wearing an Iron Man suit. “You being here today… It’s more than I dreamed I ever deserved. I promise you, we’ll do it right.”

Peter was crying freely now, and he clung to Tony’s jacket even as he told himself to let go. Just one more second… One more. He’d count to five and then let go. He moved his hands as though he could get a better grip on Tony. One more second.

Tony pulled Peter’s hand down to his side, though he kept holding him tight. “I’m so proud of you, kid. Always,” Tony whispered, then activated the button on the device to send Peter home. It was the only way Peter would have gone.

~*~

The data dump from the last jump just had been so massive that Bruce called it quits after that. He said that he and Hank had plenty to review before they were ready for more info, and Peter was sent home. Peter wasn’t entirely sure that Bruce hadn’t guessed more than he was letting on. He must have noticed the state Peter was in after that final dimension.

But going home was just as well. School was starting next week, Cassie and Scott were going back west to deliver the data to Pym, and Peter was ready to never volunteer for another mission ever again. He felt like he’d been flayed wide open and he needed to sort through all that on his own.

He did three things that afternoon.

He emailed Walgreens from his perch atop the train down to the City, so the print would be ready by the time he got to Queens.

Then, he Googled Tony. The first result was a cheesy banner featuring Iron Man’s mask, with some meaningless words beneath it. _Today, Tomorrow, You. Citibank._ Beneath it was what he was actually looking for. Peter pulled up his Wikipedia. Birth, death, education, occupation, Stark Industries… Peter scrolled down until he found the date he was looking more. Married to Virginia Potts on—

Peter slammed the button to shut off his screen, as though that could help mitigate the force of what he was feeling. It didn’t work, and he turned it on again a moment later to look at the date of Tony’s anniversary. Also here, also his Tony had gotten married on August tenth. To try and keep him close.

It worked. Peter felt kept.

Once in his room, Peter carefully pulled out the box of pictures he’d gotten from Pepper, and placed his newly printed photo inside. He and Tony stood close together, both obviously emotional but also happy, standing so close it was like they were family. Peter looked at the photo for a second longer, the another, before closing the box and putting it away.

The last thing he did that afternoon was call Happy. He didn’t know when he would next see Clint, but for today he could honor another promise, one he made to himself on behalf of Tony.

“Hey, Happy. It’s me. Peter. Any chance you’re with Morgan now? Or that you’ll see her soonish?”

“Uh, yeah, actually. Why?”

Hm. That was a very fair question, and now that Peter was committed to this, he realized he didn’t really know how to say what he wanted to without sounding like a spaz.

“Uh, so, I realized, I mean, I found out, not like I was investigating it—” Why did he always have to land on spaz? “—this is going to sound so stupid, but I know how to play Spider-Man.”

It was one of the interdimensional constants, kinda like that new Pepsi jingle. It was one of the first things other-Tony had told him about Morgan.

“How—never mind, I don’t even care. She’s been driving Pepper crazy with that—she can’t remember how it goes but she knows everything we’re doing is wrong. Tell me what you got.”

May was working, and Peter was able to spend the rest of the evening alone. His solitude was interrupted only twice, both times by text message.

The first was from Happy. _Youve made a little girl very happy. talk more tomorrow._

The second one came in shortly after that, from a number he didn’t recognize. It was longer and more eloquent. Less warm, but equally sincere.

_Hi Peter, Happy gave me your number. I wanted to thank you, as well, for helping Morgan find her game. It was something special she had with her father, a connection to him she’d been missing these last few months. It was a connection neither I nor Happy were able to recreate, and I’m grateful that was restored for her._

_You’ve made a helpless situation a little more controllable. Tony always spoke highly of your kindness, and I can see why._

_If you need anything, whether personal, SM related, or SI related, please don’t hesitate to ask me or Happy. You have my number now._

_Best,_

_Pepper Potts_

Peter reread the message a dozen times before reverently saving the number to his phone. He considered forwarding the message to Ned, but immediately vetoed his own idea. This was… This was his, and Pepper’s, and a little bit Tony’s. Tony who found a way to help his daughter, his kids, from beyond the grave and across dimensions. It was so Tony.

Peter kept going back to the picture, as though to prove to himself that those stolen hours were real, and every time he did he remembered something else that he’d wanted to ask, or to say, or to do.

He hadn’t asked why he’d been excluded from the group who saw Tony’s parting message at the funeral.

He’d meant to thank Tony for everything he’d done for him.

Did he remember to tell them about needing more Pym Particles?

He’d intended, he’d wanted, he’d have done.

There was always more to say.

There would always be more.

It’s what made the relationship worth having.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly canon-compliant, except that part where Peter nerds out in front of Beck about the multiverse. I tried to sort of explain that away by saying that he only knows about the possibility of realities very similar to his own, and he was awed by the prospect of a _varied_ multiverse. 
> 
> I wanted to explain all the ways everyone lived happily ever after in this alternate reality, which they did. But, like with loved ones, you never really have enough time with your fics, either, and it didn't make the cut. For what it's worth, they shared the power of the stones so Tony didn't die, and Natasha has people she loves whom she's willing to kill on Vormir, so she doesn't die, either. QED. In the same vein, Pepper and Tony postponed the wedding twice already because in this reality, Pepper lost her pregnancy in the Snap, and the second time because she was due to give birth to Morgan. 
> 
> I tried to explore the little ways we help ourselves mourn and feel a connection to the people we've lost, without diminishing the pain of losing them. Hope this carried through. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I'm happy to hear what you thoughts! 
> 
> (And tell your people that you love them!)

**Author's Note:**

> A few things:  
> 1\. Super-smell is the worst superpower there is. That's just a fact.  
> 2\. This is much more somber than what I usually write. My favorite Peter is light and funny Peter, but I think I needed to help him deal with Tony's death in a more meaningful way than FFH gave us.  
> 3\. Coming up is the +1, purposefully equal to parts 1-5 in text-time.  
> 4\. Thank you for reading. It's never taken for granted. 
> 
> And as always, happy to hear your thoughts, musings, ideas, reactions, and any ol' comment you may have.


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